


Picker

by SouthernMoonshine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernMoonshine/pseuds/SouthernMoonshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam can't count the number of times he's found Dean pulling his sitches out early, peeling off a scab, scratching the top off an insect bite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picker

**Author's Note:**

> Pointless oneshot nonsense. I do this occasionally.

Dean is a picker.

Sam has known this for years, and it's a gross habit. Dean can't leave _anything_ alone, be it bandages, warts, sunburn, bug bites, zits... If it's there Dean's picking at it, scratching it, pressing it, generally _bothering_ it. It's a wonder to Sam that Dean's wounds ever heal, but they do, and with fewer infections than might be expected. Sam can't count the number of times he's found Dean pulling his sitches out early, peeling off a scab, scratching the top off an insect bite.

Sam tries to draw the line but Dean gets at him sometimes when Dean's not hurt too bad and honestly it's easier to give in. So here he is, his arm stretched over the sink, with Dean bent over it busily cleaning it out, two days after the fact. Sam winces.

"Ow. Careful."

"Wuss." Dean gives the wound a final wipe and starts putting antibiotic ointment on it. "It's good. Healing."

"Good." Sam sighs and watches Dean wrap the gash up. 

Dean tapes the gauze down, hands Sam's arm back back, and settles down to peel his own bandage off. Sam watches, sitting on the counter, and wonders if this is some kind of repressed masochism or something. Dean glances at him. "Still got something in there," he explains, poking at the reddened angry stab-wound.

That was the thing about being thrown into rickety old wooden doors that shattered. Splinters. Sam shook his head."Dean, you sure? It looks alright to me."

Dean shakes his head and starts probing around the edges of the wound with blunt rough fingers. Sam sighs and watches with a kind of morbid fascination. It's gross and probably not good for Dean to do but there isn't anything Sam can do to stop it. Dean grimaces, presses harder, peers at the flow of bloody serum, and fishes around in his pocket. When he pulls out a knife Sam groans.

"Dean, no, we'll take you to the doctor. Don't you - Dean!"

"Sammy, you worry too much," Dean declares, with a quick glance and a smirk, as he wipes the knife's blade down with alcohol and keeps right on going. Sam cringes and looks away as Dean probes into the wound with his knife. 

"I worry too much. Dean, you last used that knife to gut fish!"

"I washed it," Dean replies, absently, voice steady as fresh blood begins to flow from his arm. Sam winces again. "Ah. Got it." Dean grins, drops the knife beside the sink, and presses on the wound again. A spurt of bloody pus is all he gets, until Dean slips a finger in and pulls out something. He displays the bloody sliver for Sam to admire - barely a fourth of an inch long and about the size of a pencil lead. He smirks with triumph.

Sam drops his head into his hands with an exasperated groan. "Good God, Dean, one of these days your arm will fall off."

"Hey, I'm fine. Have been for years." Dean lays the splinter on the side of the sink for continued admiration, and starts washing up. 

Which is true, but...

Sam just gives up, and slides down from the counter with another groan. Dean just laughs at him.


End file.
